by Harper Fox
His colour drained. Still clutching the ribbon, he sat down hard on the sand.
“Fen? What is it?”
“It is Gleipnir. In the legends of the Dane Lands, the people you call vikingr… No. It can’t be.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“In vikingr legend, there is a great wolf. I have told you of him. I was named after him—Fenrisulfr. This wolf became troublesome, even to the gods—he was a god himself, you see—and so they tried to defeat him. They tied him with huge iron chains. But the wolf broke through those as if they had been spider webs.”
Cai closed his hand on Fen’s fist. It was chilly as marble. “A strong wolf.”
“Yes, but a stupid one. The gods commanded the dwarves to create a new binding—thin as a ribbon of silk, but unbreakable. Now, this wolf being arrogant, he laughed when he saw it. And when the gods challenged him, he let himself be bound.” Fen’s voice softened and caught. “And he found out, as I have, that any strength may be conquered by the right chains. The ribbon was named Gleipnir. It passed into our legends as a symbol, a thing that could bind and defeat all vikingr power. It’s what Sigurd was looking for, raiding so fiercely to find. I didn’t realise. This is the treasure of Fara.”
“This poor scrap of leather?”
“Yes. You don’t understand what it means to us. More than gold, more than any plunder.” Fen shivered, as if a ghost had touched him, a spectre from a future opening up to him for the first time. “If I have this… With this, I can command the Torleik. They will see it as their strength being returned to them. When the other tribes know that we have it, they will fear us. If I bear it home with me now, perhaps I can control them. Perhaps I can bring an end to the slaughter on these shores.”
Cai didn’t let go of his hand. “Eldra is ready for you. Hengist has prepared some travelling clothes and packed up supplies for your journey.”
Fen glanced up. His gaze returned from wide inner vistas to the detail in front of him, and pain creased his brow. “I don’t have to go now. We said tomorrow, didn’t we?”
“Aye, but think what will happen. I am very tired—I’ve sat down here for too long. Halfway up the cliff, my strength will run out, and you will pick me up. Is it not so?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will protest and tell you I’m not a village maiden or a pig for you to run off with. And you will take no notice and carry me back to our shelter, and kick the willow door into place so no one can see. By that time your hold on me will have become more than I can bear.”
“Yes.” A terrible comprehension dawned in Fen’s eyes. “And your weight in my arms, your warmth and your scent…”
“Yes. So you will lay me down, and even though I am half-dead from weariness, I will open my body to you, my heart, any thing of me you want, and we will struggle and fuck until sleep takes us. And wake in the knowledge that you must go, and I must stay here, and comfort each other for that until we are fucking again. Is it not so?”
Fen couldn’t speak, but his silence gave Cai the answer he needed.
“And so it will go on. We will tear each other apart.”
Fen lurched upright, a huge spring of a movement that almost knocked Cai over on the sand. “I will go. I will send someone down to help you home.”
Gleipnir, that worn scrap of nothing, was fluttering from his hand. Cai caught the end of it. “This cord,” he whispered, not looking up. “This thing that has the power to bind all Vikings… Won’t it bind just one?”
“Yes. Yes, if you choose to use it that way.”
Cai let go. He felt one last touch to his shoulder—a kiss, warm as life, to the top of his bowed head. Then he was alone.
Chapter Eighteen
“The tail of the b goes up, Godric, not down.”
A bowing of the grizzled head. A frantic gnawing at the end of the quill, and another attempt. “There, priest. Better?”
“Much. But I should have reminded you, it’s also on the other side. You’ve written me a d.”
“D for damnation!” Godric jumped to his feet, sending quill, ink and pile of birch-barks flying. “Does this feed my cows? Does this get my slut of a wife to her hearthside to make me my broth? Does this…?” Running out of questions, he blew out his cheeks until he looked like one of the pufferfish that sometimes got caught in the cod nets, turned on his heel and stamped out.
“Never mind him, Abbot Cai.”
Caius, who had buried his head in his hands, looked down from the pulpit. Barda, the slut of a wife, was smiling serenely at him. Godric was much changed these days, other than his tongue, and the two of them rubbed along peacefully. Ironically, Godric was one of Cai’s brightest pupils. D for damnation? Cai was rather proud of him. “I don’t mind him, Barda.”
“Let him stump around his barnyard for a little while, scaring his hens. He’ll be back.”
“I know he will. How are you getting on?”
“Here.” She lifted her birch-bark to show him. It was a clear autumn day, and the new church roof was still incomplete. Cool grey light shone in. “I have made you an a, a b, a c, and…” She paused, tracing the last letter to check the direction of its tail. “And a d for damnation.”
Cai restrained himself. It didn’t do to laugh, even when they were striving to amuse him. “Those are very fine. Perfect.”
“But, you know, my husband is right.”
A murmur ran around the dozen or so villagers assembled in the church. Astonished faces turned to Barda, who had certainly never accused Godric of such a thing before. She spread her broad hands, ink-stained from her labours. “I like to do this. I like the little marks, and the sounds you tell us they make, and I like it especially when you get bored and tell us a story instead. But it doesn’t feed Godric’s cows—and I do prefer stories to broth. Why do you teach us, Abbot Cai?”
Brother. Brother Cai, not abbot. But the villagers had caught the habit from the brethren of Fara, who now mingled freely among them, sharing their labours and lives. Cai felt like the rawest, rankest novice who ever fell in from the fields. He was weary, suddenly almost too tired to stand. This happened to him still, even two months after the raid. But Barda was gazing at him, her handsome face expectant. He’d told them to ask, hadn’t he? Ask, and if I know the answer, I’ll tell you. Nothing is more dangerous than a darkened mind. “I want you to be able to read,” he said, leaning his arms on the pulpit. “If a day ever comes when a man stands among you and says, do this, do thusly, and tells you to obey because the Bible says it is so…” He paused, coughing. His lungs seemed too shallow these days. He felt as if one of them had knit into his scar.
“You want us to look at the Bible ourselves and see if it is true.”
“Yes. Exactly, yes.”
“Will we ever see a Bible, Abbot Cai?”
“You may come to the church and look at this one freely.”
“Forgive me. You said that wasn’t a Bible yet. That’s what your brothers have written down, what they can remember of the old one.”
“You’re quite right. The old one was burned. When next summer comes, I hope we will have enough mead and barley to trade against a new one from the Tyne monasteries.” He leaned forwards. “It is a good thing to remember, though. All the words in any Bible, no matter how sincere and holy, are words copied down from someone’s memory of something very, very old. Copied and copied, put into other languages and copied once again.”
“You want us to think for ourselves.” Godric had come silently back into the church. He gave Barda a warning look and made his way back to his seat and makeshift writing desk. “Attend to him, woman. Don’t I know better than anyone what comes of blind obedience?”
“Aye, well.” Barda set down her quill and folded her arms. “You’ll not be expecting it from me, then.”
Snorts of laughter broke the holy silence. Cai had often wondered what Theo would make of the things that went on in his church now. Women brought colicky babies in at their breast.
It was the only covered space of any size for miles around, and Cai allowed a small amount of trading there, exchanges and barters before the men set off to market. At night, he would spread out the Gospel of Science on the pulpit, light candles and torches in sinfully wasteful abundance, and teach his brethren how to calculate the distance to the moon.
“My friends,” he said, “I think our lesson has gone as far as it can today. Friswide, can you bring more birch-bark strips from your timber supply tomorrow?”
“I can, Abbot Cai.”
“Good. We’ll go on from d for damnation then. In summer I’ll buy you some parchment, and you’ll be writing like monastic scholars.”
After I’ve taught you Latin. Head spinning with exhaustion, Cai made his way down from the pulpit. He followed his students out of the church and sat on a rock outside its sheltered southern wall to wave them off. He recognised the futility of what he was trying to do. The illogic of it too—why not teach them to read and write in a language they already knew? But even if he succeeded with that, there’d be nothing for them to read. Latin, seeded here by a conquering army, brought to ripeness by the church, was now the language of learning—of domination—across the known world. It was a shame, because the Saxon language danced. It rolled out bright carpets of story by the village firesides at night, some in a slow-thumping poetic metre you could clap to. Cai should try to write some of it down. He should try to teach the children too, persist in getting their parents to spare them from farm work for just an hour a day. He had time. He had time for anything now.
The villagers were gone, and none of his brethren in sight. Curling up on the rock, Cai allowed the nagging cough that always lurked in his lungs to have its racking way with him. It sounded worse than it was, he hoped, and there was no blood. He just wasn’t a husky, great Viking who could spring back from such damage as if it had been a scratch.
That was a bad line of thought. When he could breathe again, he lifted his head and saw Danan down by the shoreline, plucking her herbs unmolested. The sight of her pleased him. It was for her sake, for the sake of every creature different, unknown, unable or unwilling to conform to the law of the church or any authority, that Cai would teach his villagers. He would teach his brethren, who could read their Bible but needed to look beyond it to the stars. There once had been a Christianity here—Addy’s kind, the communion with eagles and seals—which had briefly blended with Danan’s ways, with the ancient beliefs of these islands. Cai had no hope of restoring it. But Addy had told him to shed light, and so he would.
Yes, he had time, though he filled his empty hours diligently. He was strong enough now to help with the rebuilding, such as it was. No more halls, nothing at all that could be seen from the sea. The beehive huts crouched low—a primitive shelter, but sufficient. Cai had one of his own now, and the salvaged corner of the old rooms served as a kitchen and refectory. In his cell he was quite alone, and once his working day was done, he would turn over the pages of the Gospel of Science for himself, lost in the wonder of it, learning all he could. The book had a hiding place ready, a gap beneath Theo’s tomb in the crypt. Cai wasn’t sure who he feared more—Viking raiders, or the men of his own faith who might someday come to claim the wilderness. He would do as Theo had done. He would absorb enough to make a copy, so that if the day came, they would have to burn him too.
Another bad thought. Something in him stirred with yearning at the idea of the flames. Time—despite everything, he had too much time. The hours stretched. No matter how he worked, there were still great, barren patches in his days, sterile deserts when all he could do was escape to the beaches and walk. The sands were desolate now, winter blowing down in heaped grey clouds. Cai would walk for miles, looking eastward to the land of the Danes.
It was no good. He was hollowed out, sick, losing weight by the day no matter what he ate. He pushed Fen from his mind and saw his shape in every shadow. It had only been two months.
Harness jingled in the distance, and he sat up. His limbs were stiff, the cloudy sun much lower in the sky than when he’d settled here. Had he slept? His eyes were gritty and sore. Rubbing them, he tried to make out the source of the sound. He could hear men’s voices now, and horses whinnying. Some kind of caravan was making its way across the mud flats. Two carts—no, three—and a couple of shaggy horses on a leading rein. Benighted traders, perhaps, hoping for a night’s shelter at Fara. Or maybe a rare group of travelling players, come to tumble and juggle beanbags and frighten Eyulf into shrieking fits by pulling out coins from his ears. Aelfric had sent the last lot packing. Cai would welcome them, give them a supper. He barely had enough to feed his men as it was, but Theo—and Christ—had commended all kindness to strangers.
A show would do everyone, monks and villagers alike, a world of good. Cai got up and brushed off his robes. The leader of the group was driving a sturdy black pony at a sharp pace over the sands. He was well-matched to his beast, burly and dark haired. It took Cai a minute more to recognise his father.
Broccus slowed up in a flurry of mud-splash outside the monastery gate. Cai no longer kept it closed, his friends all being welcome and his enemies unstoppable now by means of any barricade. Nevertheless the old man halted. He raised a hand. Cai returned the gesture, wondering if he were still asleep. For once in his life, Broc had asked for permission.
He rattled up the track and came to a stop outside the church, the other drivers flanking him. Cai went to meet them. He had pulled up his hood against the sharp autumn wind, tucked his hands into the sleeves of his cassock. Broc looked down at him from the seat of his cart. He gave a derisory chuckle, much more familiar to Cai than the show of politeness at the gate. “Well, freeze my balls if it isn’t my firstborn, looking every inch the monk.”
The last time Broc had seen him, Cai had been wearing his travelling clothes. He’d never set eyes on him in his cassock. “What did you expect?”
“From the stories I’ve been hearing—chain mail perhaps, and a sword. I heard my godly son became a warrior. Took up arms and fought off Viking marauders—saved this place, for what it’s worth. I heard they made you abbot.”
Cai pushed back his hood. He didn’t want to be angry. He didn’t have the strength for it, and he hated the dull surge of rage the old man could make him feel. “Nobody made me anything. What do you want here?”
“I thought I’d come and look at my son’s domain. See what made him give up a kingdom. So far I see a church with no roof and what I hope are your pigsties.”
Cai began to walk away. A cold, thin rain was falling, and he could smell Fen in the folds of his damp robes. Laundry was less of a priority these days, though Hengist did his best. The scent was a reality. Broc had to be a bad dream. He’d vanish if Cai ignored him for long enough.
“Caius!”
Something different in that voice, as alien as the hesitation at the gate. Remonstrance, and a rasp of—what? Fear? Unable to imagine it, Cai turned back to see. But Broc was leaping down from the cart, his face hidden.
“Here!” he shouted, dragging down a sack and hefting it as if it weighed nothing. “Barley grain for your bread and your next planting. Half a dozen of those, and…” He gestured to his companions, who also began unloading their carts. “Where is your sheep pasture?”
Mutely Cai pointed uphill to the enclosure where three lonely beasts now grazed, the only remnants of Wilf’s runaways. Broc’s second wagon seemed to burst apart in a surge of bleating life, and Cai found himself knee-deep in the hardy little black-faced crossbreeds who thrived on the hillfort’s bleak slopes. Before he could speak, Broc nodded to his companion, who whistled to a grizzled herding dog and turned the flock into a river, flowing away uphill. “Ten ewes and a tup, to restart your stock. Half a dozen sacks of corn. Half a dozen oats. Two decent-sized horses, fit for plough or cart.”
“Why, Broccus?”
“Why what?”
“This. Now.”
Broc balled his hands into fists. He bra
ced them on his hips and looked about him. “I heard the last raid cleaned you out, that’s all.”
“I can’t give you anything to pay for these.”
“If I’d wanted barter, I’d have taken them to Traprain market, not this ruin. When I heard how boldly you’d fought, boy, and trained other men to do likewise…” Broc hesitated, then went on as if being forced to confession at sword point. “I was proud of you.”
Cai came to stand in front of him. His heart was beating fast, the shrieks of dying friends and enemies resounding in his ears. “Proud of me?” He swallowed. “I came here a raw, ignorant brat. I have learned to read, write, speak Latin. I can doctor men and teach them. And now—now when you hear that I’ve broken my every vow, grabbed a sword and learned how to hack men to bits with it—now you’re proud?”
Broc stared at him blankly. His face was Cai’s, sculpted by a few more rounds of summer light and winter hail, a mirror of the future Cai had come here to avoid. “I should load these wagons back up and go, you brat.”
“If you wish.”
“Caius—what do you expect of me?”
Cai blinked. The old man sounded bitter, but the anger had vanished from his voice. “What do you mean?”
“When I said you looked like a monk, you asked me what I expected. You were right. It was a foolish thing to say.” Broc ran a hand through his hair so that it stood up in a perplexed crest. “What do I look like to you? A saint? A priest? I am the man you have known all your life. I steal cattle, swive women, defend my hillfort. My boy ran away from me to become everything I am not. Forgive me, that my heart burned with joy to hear he had become a warrior.”
He unhitched the two horses from their leading rein, tethered them with a wooden ground spike, and clambered back into the cart. He shouted at his herdsman, pointing off down the track to indicate that he should catch up with him there, and shook his pony’s reins.
Cai watched his retreat. Dusk was falling, and it wouldn’t take long for the mist to swallow him up. There would be no evidence for his existence, apart from some tracks in the turf.